White Vellum & Black Ink
by Cinis
Summary: Rorek and Malchior. Malchior and Rorek. Two of the greatest mages the world has seen are dead set on a collision course, and gods help anything that gets in their way. PastFic
1. Catalyst

A/N: Written for the Bringing Back the Past contest at Romanticide. The contest was to write a story about Malchior and Rorek set in the past, and it's set to end at the end of January bows as everyone applauds her procrastination There are only two OCs in this story that are going to have any importance whatsoever, they are Artor (Rorek's young cousin, made by me), and Kyrie (a witch/mage, made by Zoicytes-Shadow). The current rating is because I have something planned for later chapters (who knows, it may never happen though). A brief note, the world this takes place in is, more or less, ancient Azarath.

Disclaimer: I don't own Malchior, Rorek, Azarath, or anything else in Teen Titans (much too large a list to put down) - they're property of Warner Bros/DC Comics. Kyrie is property of Zoicytes-Shadow, used with permission. Artor is mine.

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_  
In the weeks following the overthrow of House Metrion, much of the knowledge and history accumulated throughout the ages has been permanently destroyed as the forces of Azarath suddenly seized control of the Capital and slaughtered the aristocracy. Before long I predict that the Archmages and all that they stand for will be destroyed in the name of Azarath. Myself and a small group of my fellows have fled in hopes of survival. The Azar spares no one. In the brief respites that come as we rest after shifting dimensions, I have taken it upon myself, Artor of Nole, to document the life of my cousin, Rorek of Nole, more often called Rorek Dragonsbane..._

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The Capital City was bustling with activity as traders hurried about and children played while avoiding being crushed under the massive hooves of some farm horse come to market. Entertainers staked out street corners, nobles in shoddy disguises scurried around to buy and sell on the black market, and common thieves sized up the entire mass of humanity while their fingers flickered in and out of sight. Above everything else rose the palace – the center of the Empire and seat of House Metrion. Even in the weak pre-dawn light the building shown a blinding white.

In the strata between the common folk and the House of Metrion's sprawling complex lay the upper class dwellings of various nobles and useless officials who formed a painful but necessary system of bureaucracy. Within this sphere of paper shuffling was the Mage's Quarter, a square mile or so set a fair distance from anything of great import that was given to the practitioners of magic. At the founding of the city, the area had been past the outskirts of town, but as the town inched out and the Quarter inched in, it was now closer to the center of the city than even the palace. The original concept had been that if anything exploded, a plague was released, or some foolish apprentice woke an army of the dead, that the place would be neck deep in enough magic to take care of the situation before anyone else had to care.

One of the smaller residencies here was the two story residency of Rorek of Nole. It sat a few blocks from the central plaza looking like a deranged mesh between a mud-brick hut and a Gothic cathedral complete with gargoyles randomly flapping their wings and yawning.

Rorek himself stood on the white marble-floored courtyard of his roof talking animatedly into a hovering sphere of magic. Long white hair head been pulled back into a ponytail so he could utilize bright blue eyes to bore into a face only he could see in the sphere.

Not far off a young boy played in a pile of multicolored grains of sand. The spitting image of Rorek, the child had the same white hair and blue eyes that were a trademark of the family; excepting perhaps that his hair had been kept short and spiky. Following the waves of his hand, the sand soared about to form patterns that meant something to him, but to no one else.

Sitting a few feet from the child was a small congregation of the houses' guardian gargoyles, gambling using a worn deck of cards over small quartz chips.

"Ya ninny, ya jus' punched a griev'n 'ole lin it," one gargoyle screeched at another, whose claw could be seen stabbed through one of the cards.

"Wuz a acciden, didn' mean ta ya granite bastard!"

Another gargoyle cuffed both of them on the back of their rocky heads. "Both o' ya shut yer traps. Tha young masta's sitt'n right there," it pointed a malformed talon at the boy. "Member wha happened las' time we wuz talkin' round Artor? Clarence los' his wings – now he's begin' on tha streets!"

With a loud crash a pair of oak gates slammed open. The circle of gargoyles huddled in fear before glancing over to see what the commotion was. Much to their delight it was not the impending doom of Rorek towering over them, but a tall man with a warm hearted grin adorning his face.

"Uncle Mal!" Artor screamed as he bounded up to the man and tackled his chest, the colorful sand abandoned. Staggering backwards a few steps, Malchior threw out a hand to stop himself from backing into a wall. By this time Artor had scampered up to balance on top of Malchior's head of short purple hair. Reaching into the folds of his rich silk shirt with his free hand, Malchior produced a small bag of expensive sugar candies with a flourish.

Predictably, Artor leaped off his perch to seize the candy before running off with it. Malchior ambled over to Rorek, who was hurriedly excusing himself from his conversation with the sphere. Without a second thought, Malchior reached out and crushed the sphere.

"I believe you understand that you've just cut off my father mid-sentence," Rorek scowled.

Malchior grinned, his dark blue near-purple eyes glinting with an aura of carefree mischief. "Whatever it was, it can't have been so important to have kept you from speaking to your oldest friend."

Rorek ignored the implied question and scowled. "What do you want?"

"I want to summon a dragon."

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_"The last years in the Age of Zinthos is marked by the last year in which a dragon was seen." Malchior looked up from his notes. "What is the first year of Zinthos based off of, what was the last year, and who was the last dragon?"_

_Rorek glared at a spot on the ceiling while brushing his short white hair out of his eyes. "The first year, is based off of what scholars have determined to be the first year in which humans walked the Void. The last year, 11,000, is based off of the recorded date when the dragoness Caspar set her mark on the family of Metrion and then flew into the Void." Letting his chair return to all four legs with a solid thump, Rorek shook his hair out of his eyes again before looking straight at his companion. "What I'd give to have that kind of freedom – the ability to just walk away from everything when I tired of it."_

_Malchior glanced back at his notes. "We know next to nothing about the dragons though. They existed before the first humans, and doubtless will still be out there when we're gone. No text from or about the Age of Zinthos fails to mention them, but precious few actually say anything of import about them. 'Winged creatures of power and majesty' is about as descriptive as the records get."_

_A dreamy look crossed Rorek's face. "The details don't matter, it's the idea behind the thing. Beholden to nothing, to no one... no responsibility, just life..." Suddenly snapping back to reality he continued, "and aren't they finding massive murals and entire libraries with information about the earliest days of Zinthos, along with dragons, in the ruins under the old temple of Scath?"_

_"Yes, I think they are. Funny, the old priests were right, from fire comes all..." Malchior scoffed._

_"And all returns to fire," Rorek finished the saying that had once been engraved above the temple gates. "The temple came from fire, and look what happened to it..."_

_"Happened to what," a female voice interrupted. A young woman with black hair that stopped just above her shoulders emerged from behind a bookcase. "I heard there was a study grou- are you alright?" she shifted mid sentence and started at Rorek. "Do you have a fever?"_

_Rorek's entire face was growing redder by the moment_

_"No, I think some idiot downstairs must be playing with fire," Malchior announced, slipping his fingers under the table to point at the stones, which immediately began to heat up. "Actually, Kyrie, we were just about to leave, but if you want, we can stay for another hour before lights out."_

_Descending to the open area of the floor where the two young men were set up, Kyrie started to sweat. Intending to accept the offer, she changed her mind, "Ah, no thank you, bit too hot around here for my liking," she declared, smiling._

_The small group let out a chuckle before Rorek fainted, presumably because of the heat._

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"Absolutely not," Rorek stated flatly.

"But-"

"No," the white-haired mage interrupted. "It's too risky, a summoning of that magnitude. What if we called upon a dragon that wished humanity ill, what then? A dragon cannot be matched, not even by all the Archmages!"

Brushing aside Rorek's warnings, Malchior pressed on, "Exactly! Imagine the knowledge speaking with a dragon might bring! Imagine the prestige and influence; imagine the power one might gain. With such at our disposal, the two of us might unseat House Metrion and bring about a new era!"

Rorek's once neutral mood could now only be described as ice. "You speak of treachery, be glad that I count you among my friends – it would benefit you to keep in mind my mentor is the Hand of Justice in the Capital. If you are here only to speak of such evils, I must ask you to leave."

Taken by surprise, Malchior blinked as a stunned look crossed his face. He had neither imagined that his old friend would so quickly reject his plans, nor had he expected such a hostile reaction. "Can't you, Rorek, of all people, see my vision?"

"I can see your vision quite clearly, and it disgusts me. You have spoken against those I am sworn to. I ask you to leave my house immediately." Rorek's face betrayed no emotion, but his voice spoke of loathing, seeming to convey that he thought of his old friend as less than a bug to be crushed underfoot.

Malchior took a step back in shock. "Rorek! You would send me from your presence, after all that we have been through, simply for wishing change in the archaic system of 'government'?"

"If you wished to rise in the system under which our fathers, their fathers, unto hundreds of generations, have accepted, I would help – you need only ask. Instead you come to me with fantasies of smashing that which I hold dear, asking me to forswear myself! Get out of my house, and do not return," Rorek's words rose to a near yell by the end of his short speech.

Unbelieving, Malchior turned and stalked out of the courtyard. As he left, a gargoyle made a rude claw gesture accompanied by several gravelly-sounding noises.

Rorek turned as well. About to mimic Malchior's gait to the other end of the courtyard, he came face to face with a hovering Artor.

"Why did Uncle Mal leave? I didn't get to say thank you," the boy protested, waving the empty bag of sweets in the air.

"Malchior had matters to attend to," hesitating a second, Rorek bent down, pulling Artor along with him in the invisible grasp of magic. Staring the child in the eye he continued, "Malchior has done some very bad things. If you play with him, speak with him, or anything else with him, keep in mind that it will drag our family's name through the same muck that he wallows in. Understand?"

As stunned as Malchior himself had been, Artor stared wide-eyed at his cousin. "But... but..."

Rorek reached out and placed his hand firmly on Artor's shoulder. "Understand?"

"Yes Rorek," the boy said, staring at the dirt as he moved his toe back and forth on the stone pavement.

"Good." Rorek stood. "I simply hope he makes this easy on all of us."

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I'm sure everyone who reads fan fics knows what I'm about to beg for... reviews! 


	2. Mercs & Arrows

A/N: Whoosh! that's the sound of Trenin updating more than once a year!

Here's what's up with all my flashbacks... I like flashbacks. I think they work better for going over past events in detail without a long dialouge paragraph that bores everyone to tears. But also, this story is being written for the Romanticide Contest "Bringing Back the Past."**  
**Therefore I am resorting to this weak and overused device to meet more challanges of the contest.  
** If one large flashback a chapter gets annoying, think of it as another story that got paperclipped onto the main story.**  
... which is probably something all authors should avoid doing... oh well

In other news... **Updates will hopefully come about once a Friday.** Unless school gets in the way (which it will). Wonderful stuff, school. I get on the bus at 6:30, 6:53 they radio in because school's cancelled for snow & ice and all the buses have to turn around and take us home. All the snow's melted by noon, and they still call a two hour delay for the next day (which nobody knew about because the radio didn't say - most of us found out via looking at the school system's webpage). Also on the webpage, because the buses were en route, the cancelled school day counted as a full day. Glorious school systems. No Child Left Behind on their grebnaks and they still let us off...

Thanks to the beta readers (even if I'm fairly sure they need to be a lot harsher); Sepik, Pixie10111, and schuldige7

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_A medium sized company of perhaps seventy-five men, women, animals, and others plodded on a red dirt road across a great expanse of rolling fields filled with tall dried grasses and weeds. Although it was late in the day, the group was lively and just beginning to come abuzz with the constant murmur of small talk. The sun was setting in the horizon, its last rays glinting off of what little arms and armor the traveling party still carried after the long, hot march._

_"Why're we escorting some snot-eating noble whelp?" An incredibly short, bald, man riding on the shoulder of a colossal granite golem composed of boulders of various sizes complained._

_"It pays," came the bored reply from the ground below. The one who had answered his question looked up at the man with a pair of bright pink eyes. With a graceful leap, the thin woman soared up to land next to the bald man. "This is probably safer than rushing into the middle of a war... and what kind of mercenaries would we be if we turned down jobs this lucrative?"_

_"Smart ones! Don't care how much we make, Jinx, this just ain't worth it!" The bald man added, "And what kind of name is 'Rorek' anyways?"_

_"Gizmo right. Not worth it," the golem grumbled in a slow, rocky baritone._

_The woman stuck out an elbow to lean on the golem's head. "Aww, but aren't they cute?" Her vertically slits pupils were fixed on two children in the back of a wagon._

_The two 'cute' children stared at each other. The older one, as evidenced by his size, had a head of short, unruly, brown hair. The younger one, no more than a few years old, looked as though he were intimidated by the other. The brown headed boy, on the other hand, was entranced by the hair of his junior. An inquiring finger reached out to poke the fluffy white mass, and was promptly bitten by a sharp set of teeth. The older yelped in surprise. Responding to the sudden loud noise, the white headed boy began to bawl._

_"Cute. Right," the bald man drawled sarcastically. "I'm just glad I'm not on brat-duty."_

_Far below the group of three, a dark-skinned woman clothed in yellow and black rushed over to the children._

_"And what about Malchior? Why's he still hanging around?" Gizmo spat, taking care for the spittle to clear the golem's shoulder._

_"Shut up," Jinx said coldly. "Malchior is one of us now. We still owe his father that much – saved our lives more times than I care to count. It's the least we can do to look after his son."_

_"I'm just saying, sooner or later, between those two snot noses, we'll all get killll-," the last word transformed into a panicked scream as the golem reached up a hand and brushed Gizmo off of his shoulder. Catching the falling body before it could splatter against the hard packed dirt road, the golem slowly lowered the bald man the rest of the way to the ground. A murmur of laughter spread throughout the company at the golem's antics._

_Jinx giggled, "Who ever said there's no honor among thieves?" Stretching her neck with a satisfying 'crack', the woman continued, "Oh, look, I think they're going to be fr-"_

_Rorek and Malchior broke their renewed staring contest as a loud, wet thud emanated from just behind their wagon. The brown haired boy was the first to scamper over to get a closer look. His piercing keen was quickly echoed by the anguished cry of the golem, and then taken up by the rest of the traveling party._

_Jinx – or what used to be Jinx – was lying in a bloody mass on the road with the tail end of an arrow still sprouting like a young sapling from the center of her back. A stray bone splinter poked up through the skin of her arm._

_"Jinx!" wailed the bald man, who had only moments before been dethroned from his perch as the most visible target. As he rushed towards the body of his friend, an arrow hissed out to lodge in the meat of his leg. Staggering, Gizmo fell with two more buried in his head._

_"To arms, to arms!" yelled a large black man. "Defend the wagon at all costs!" He was cut short by an arrow clipping his neck. Without another word, the man clapped a hand across his split jugular._

_"Stone!?" The woman who'd attended to Malchior and Rorek suddenly appeared by the man's side._

_Chuckling, Stone's hand glowed blue, leaving only a pink scar on his neck. "It'll take more than a little arrow to kill me, Bee." He unsheathed a huge two-handed sword from its worn scabbard on his back, "Have some faith." Glancing at the mounting number of fallen bodies around him, he boomed in a battlefield voice, "BURN THE FIELDS! BOTH OF THEM!"_

_At his command, golden-red flames raced across the dry grasses, devouring everything they touched._

_"Brace yourselves!" No sooner had the words left his mouth than a line of heavily armed men rushed out as a single mass from both sides of the road and slammed into the company._

_In a wordless roar, the golem fell into great, dead chunks of granite among a fireworks display of red explosions. What used to be its head smashed into the wagon in a hail of wooden splinters, neatly flipping it with Rorek and Malchior still inside._

_After their painful crash landing onto the packed dirt, Malchior wisely clapped both his hands over the younger child's mouth and dragged them both deeper into the safe haven of the crushed wagon._

_What little light came through from the fire and dying sunlight was halved when the headless body of the woman in yellow and black fell in front of the main opening to the outside hell._

_"Bee!" Stone's bulky legs could be seen kneeling in front of the body. With a wild scream of rage he stood, but quickly joined the woman in blocking the entrance to the boys' haven. Head lolling to the side, he seemed to smile at the children before a sword came down to sever his torso from his legs. Stone's blood sprayed out in all directions, splattering across the hidden boys._

_Malchior screamed for the second time that day, but it was thankfully muffled by the wagon and the continuing ebb and flow of deafening warfare._

_An eternity passed. Malchior's teeth dug into the skin of his lower lip as silent tears trickled down his face to splatter onto Rorek's white hair. The young noble was sobbing, but Malchior's hands still smothered his cries. The silence emanating from their safe haven remained unbroken._

_A rhythmic sound of footsteps began, growing ever closer, accompanied by the sound of metal sliding in and out of flesh. The impending doom reached the boys as a blade fell and rose again out of Stone's motionless neck. No blood rushed forth this time. All of his life had drained away to run over Karen's body below, and then down to stain the dirt and turn it to mud. But the footsteps passed, and continued on; the sickening sounds growing ever fainter._

_"Where is the boy?" inquired a gruff voice, seemingly right behind Malchior's head._

_"No one's seen him since the ambush," replied a nearly identical voice from a bit farther off._

_"Sir, I think he was on the wagon."_

_"Maybe he was crushed? Pulverized, smashed, decimated..." another man hissed._

_"No," interrupted the first voice, seemingly the commander. "You four, right the wagon."_

_"Sir! Someone's coming!"_

_"What? Hurry! We must finish here," the leader shouted._

_Malchior felt the planks of wood begin to shift across his back. A fresh, cold night breeze whispered in under the rapidly growing gap between the ground and the remains of the wagon._

_A man let loose a dying scream, but the wagon continued to rise. More far off shouts followed along with the sound of metal ringing on metal, then a scream close by. Malchior gripped Rorek even tighter as a corner of the wagon collapsed back to the dirt road. Within moments the other three corners had also fallen. The force of the impact caused the ceiling above them to sag down, pushing Malchior's chin into Rorek. An eternity of uncomfortable waiting passed before the wagon rose again. This time, the protective covering was entirely removed._

_A man clothed in white, smelling of oil and rust, knelt down by the two boys. He lay down his sword and shifted his heavily armored bulk around a bit before extending a blood stained gauntlet towards Malchior and Rorek. "I am Raguel of Azarath. You're safe now."_

_------------_

Malchior's eyes shot open. Blinking a few times, it occurred to him he'd just had a nightmare, but the exact nature of the dream was eternally lost to him. The first glimmerings of dawn danced across his room like drunken fairies. Shuddering at the thought of drunken fairies as he swung his legs off of the bed, the purple haired mage glanced at a wardrobe before twitching his fingers slightly. An assortment of expensive shirts and trousers floated out for his viewing before marching back into the wardrobe. Only a single set of relatively plain - if such a thing could be said about anything he wore - clothes remained. Dressing slowly, he exited his room and entered a long stone corridor.

The torches burned brightly and cleanly, offsetting dark walls which would cause a run-of-the-mill oppressively dank and musty feeling. Malchior grinned. Overall, his castle exuded a warm, homey feel – and he liked it that way. Taking his time strolling across the large paving stones while listening to his own bare feet slap across them, the mage contemplated installing carpets. First stopping to examine the rock beneath him, Malchior sighed before continuing his leisurely stroll.

After many more thoughts of interior design, he reached a huge pair of double doors.

Malchior paused to straighten his shirt. A mirror detached itself from its place on the wall to hover in front of his face. Quickly conjuring a comb, the vain mage tidied his hair. Taking a deep breath, he allowed the comb to fade back to non-existance and the mirror to return to its perch. The mammoth doors gave a massive shudder and creaked open to reveal a great hall that utterly dwarfed the raven-haired woman standing in it, impatiently tapping her foot.

Seeing Malchior strut in, she matched his grin. "You took your time coming, sometimes I think you spend more time preening than a gaggle of handmaidens." Looking him up and down, she continued, "although you definitely do a better job of it. The dark blue shirt certainly compliments your eyes."

Malchior beamed. "Why thank you Kyrie, it's a bit of a natural gift. But my own good looks are secondary..." He paused while she snorted in disbelief. "Hmpf. I see you've improved your ladylike behavior. Shall we begin?"

Cracking her knuckles, Kyrie frowned slightly before smiling again. "Yes, let's summon a dragon."

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Reviews make the world go round. Or at least fanfiction dot net go round. You get what I'm saying. 


	3. The Summoning

A/N: Chapter three. Have I ever made it this far before?

Some brief notes about the chapter: It was originally going to be a lot longer - mainly because it was supposed to contain a very long winded flashback. On second thought, not only was the flashback irrelevent, but I also didn't want to write it. So what few people read this are spared - but it's also not quite up to par as far as length is concerned. It occurs to me that I am really bad at writting long conversations. My appologies.  
Kyrie is turning into a screen-time-hog, which is starting to be annoying. But she's still got a role to play. More appologies for giving so much attention to an OC.

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A massive raptor circled the muddy brown lake – again and again it went round, over and over. 

All other life had long since fled as the sun's first rays began to scorch the land. A foreboding quiet reigned across what would normally be lively forest-clad hills. The sense of doom echoed in the still waters and occasionally the distant screech of the sole raptor.

The animals knew.

The bird would have been long since gone were it not for the insistent commands pounding through its mind.

"_Go down! Towards the castle_," the voice shouted. The bird obeyed. It folded its great brown wings and dove, a few loose feathers working their way off into the rush of wind. The great three-tiered stone fortress loomed ever closer. Through one of the massive arches two small figures moved about. "_Yes! Yes! Down, down! Get close to them!_" the voice shouted in glee.

_Wham!_

Malchior and Kyrie looked up towards where the sound had come from. A huge golden avian was sliding down off the enchanted glass.

"Dumb bird," Kyrie commented, raising an eyebrow.

Malchior sighed, conjuring a small fireball with his fingertips, "Shall you put it out of its misery, or shall I?" Despite the resigned tone, the purple haired mage still let his ever present grin dance across his face. It was clear he relished the thought of killing the dazed animal.

"Oh leave it alo-HEY! The Mornal Archives are supposed to be next to the Book of Nord, not the Romanomicon," Kyrie pointed at the offending book with panicked gesture.

Malchior ran over to the aged manuscript and carefully lifted it. "Silly me. And that is why I can't do this alone," he paused before slowly picking up another tome and laying down the first. "Look, I even had it turned to the wrong page," he said, exasperated.

"A mistake like that could get us killed..." Kyrie trailed off into deep thought. Her companion stalked around the ring of literature, taking in every detail. "Six eyes are better than four; why isn't Rorek here? I might not be able to cast a spell of this magnitude."

Malchior started for a moment before idly crouching down to check the page of a book. "Two's company, three's a crowd. Rorek couldn't make it."

Kyrie's eyes narrowed to bore into her companion. Her foot incessantly beat against the floor in an erratic rhythm. "You're not telling me something."

Malchior carefully lifted a few stray bits of hair from his face before replying, "Huh?"

Arms crossed, the female mage stopped tapping and planted her feet firmly. "In all likelihood, we're both about to be killed playing with magic. The least you can do is tell me the truth."

Letting his smile fade, Malchior cocked his head to the side and shuffled backwards slightly. "I am. I asked him, but he was too busy paper shuffling and such."

"What? I thought he'd be overjoyed..." Kyrie trailed off, stunned by the revelation. Her hands dropped down to her sides.

"He's not the same friend – he's changed..." Malchior turned away and dropped his voice to an inaudible mutter, "and not for the better." Raising his voice back to a speaking level he announced, "The last book is set. Everything is ready."

"Already? I never thought this would happen," Kyrie said, slightly awed and sufficiently distracted from pursuing her interrogation.

_"You're not the only one," _the raptor's invisible rider seconded. The bird pulled itself up from it's crumpled pile at the base of the window. "_Now hurry._"

"If this works... the first dragon in eons," Malchior looked up towards the distant ceiling, but did not see the stone arches and rafters. "A new age, a new kingdom..."

"If this doesn't work, two dead bodies," the sorceress interjected.

In a sudden rage, the purple haired mage rushed over and grabbed Kyrie's shoulders. "Don't you dare think like that. I refuse to have come all this way for nothing. I stole the Galleon Scrolls from Azarath! I procured each and every one of these tomes," he swept his left arm out to indicate the eleven books and scrolls laid out in a large circle. "I _refuse_ to have come all this way for nothing," Malchior repeated. His demeanor returning to serenity, he continued, "We can do this. You can do this. I'm the crux of the spell, even if everything goes horribly wrong, you'll be safe," the mage begged.

Pulling away from him, Kyrie slowly walked to the pedestal placed outside the circle, setting a blank sheet of paper on it. "I'll hold you to your word – I have no desire to die."

Silently nodding, Malchior stepped into the center of the circle and turned to face Kyrie. Taking a deep, calming breath, he brought both palms of his hands together and then slowly drawing them apart, the mage formed a crackling orb of violet energy. Beads of sweet slowly formed, then rolled down his face. Across the circle, Kyrie copied his motion, igniting a similar ebony ball.

Outside, the raptor hopped from foot to foot in anticipation.

Two voices began to chant, "Rex ex logos crescere sinemus," they called out in perfect unison. An ominous wind blasted through the motionless hall, turning the pages of the books. Kyrie's sheet of paper didn't budge.

"Eum ex zintho advocamus." As the wind grew in strength the mages were forced to raise their voices. The only calm in the massive room was the single unified sound of chanting.

The raptor edged up until it was pressed against the magical glass, every muscle twitching.

"Eius anima corpo adsumit." The energies in the hall coalesced into a purple whirlwind with a few streaks of black, fed by the twin orbs of magic, and surrounded Malchior. He stood in the eye of the storm, untouched, still reciting the spell. The pale skin on the palms of his hands was ravaged by the purple orb's violent suction into the chaos, slowly peeling back and bleeding freely.

The sorceress began to bring her hands closer to the blank paper. Before long the orb touched the sheet and soaked into it.

Meanwhile, the storm of sorcery continued to twist and turn within the circle, rising up to the ceiling. As it hit the roof, it smashed up into and through the ancient stones. The force of the blow threw the scattered boulders towards the distant sun, and then back down. All around a rain of rubble crashed down to the floor, splintering the flagstones.

Kyrie stood her ground. She flinched at every boom, but still stayed erect. The ebony orb had now almost completely soaked into the page.

"Assurge!"

At the final word the raptor screeched and the storm died. Within the ring of books, Malchior fell to his knees, head bent back, staring up to the sky beyond the ruined ceiling. The sun was nearing its zenith; faint golden rays streamed down to the floor and surrounded the mage. The blood dripping from his fingertips shone bright red, seeming to glow on the warm pavement.

His words were a mixture of disbelief and despair, "It failed."

* * *

A/N: The spell used was 

Rex ex logos crescere sinemus  
Eum ex zintho advocamus  
Eius anima corpo adsumit  
Assurge

A basic translation is

We allow the king to come forth (be born) from the word  
We summon (invoke) him from Zinthos  
His spirit takes form  
Rise!

Even if you think I'm full of it and hate the story, a review would still be nice


	4. A Feud of Mages

A/N: Ahoy there! Chapter Four up and ready to be read! Politics in fanfic form, I've now realized, is just as dull as politics in real life. Remind me not to try to write them again.

Absolutely tragic news, I've heard that the new Golden Compass movie has been de-religionized. The only comfort this provides is that there's no way they can go on to screw up The Subtle Knife, and especially not The Amber Spyglass, if they're not including the Church because then they'd have to completely reinvent the entire plot, not just nearly every single event. Knock on wood. Is it just me or is Hollywood slowly becoming more and more pathetic? _  
_

* * *

_Tap tap tap tap_... Rorek's booted toe rose and fell to the rhythm of impatience. He nervously glanced at the gilded clock resting above the stone door frame while fiddling with his dark scarf. He wore a silver-gray tunic and a black bodysuit beneath – hardly formal wear, but he was a mage and not completely bound hand and foot by the centuries of ever increasing customs. _Tap tap tap tap_...

"Pleeeeeeease?" came a whine from behind Rorek's ear. Startled, the mage gave a slight jump forward before turning to see Artor standing on an ebony table and grinning wide enough to swallow up Malchior's entire castle.

Annoyed, Rorek responded, "For the last time, absolutely not!" Pausing, the mage scowled. "And get your feet off that table – it was a gift from Raguel."

Artor's grin diminished slightly before reemerging as a full blown smirk. "Raggy's rich, he can get you another table!" Slowly at first, but then faster, the boy's feet began to move in the time-honored patterns of a jig on the polished wood.

Horrified, Rorek leaned over and tried to grab the small form of his cousin, but was easily dodged as Artor danced backwards deeper onto the table and farther from Rorek. The mage curled both hands into fists in frustration before slamming them into the very table he sought to protect. "Surge!" A nearly audible crack issued forth as Rorek's eyes momentarily glowed white.

Howling with laughter, Artor was lifted by an invisible hand from the prized surface. "Now will you let me come," he giggled out.

Rorek was not amused, to say the least. "No," he grunted through gritted teeth. "Go to your room." Before he had taken the time to drop Artor back onto the floor, a black aura surrounded Rorek's scarf and yanked it up over his eyes.

"Oh let him come!"

The white haired mage said something that was muffled by the thick cloth. In a quick gesture he raised up his pale hands to grasp the scarf and pull it down. The article of clothing didn't budge.

"Well can he? Oh, I forgot, let me help."

The first thing that Rorek saw was Kyrie's thin face, framed by long black hair. She was sitting on his prized table in a brilliant scarlet dress and leaning down to stare at him. Somewhere in the background, Artor crashed to the thick silvery carpet with a dull thud.

"Fine," Rorek spat, although his word lacked any hint of malice. "He can come... on one condition."

Every occupant of the room listened with baited breath for the master of the house's pronouncement.

"I haven't the time to arrange his formal clothes – the gargoyles will do it," he said.

A stunned silence followed. Then Rorek suddenly grinned. Kyrie laughed. Artor wailed.

"NO! I DIDN'T MEAN IT! PLEASE!" the child screamed.

Still smiling, Rorek offered Kyrie his arm, "This way milady." Using his free hand he snapped his fingers above his head in a carefree manner to summon one of the house's servants. "Petros, please dress Artor and have him come along as soon as he's ready."

"Shoo thin' boss," the gargoyled responded, swooping down on it's granite wings to snatch up the fleeing form of Artor.

At this point Kyrie had fallen into hysterics and even Rorek had broken out of his stuffy facade and begun to laugh as the pair strode past the stone door and out of the house.

-------------

"... for it is not every day, nor every year, nor even every century that we gather together in celebration of the future, the next millennium," the speaker droned on.

For Rorek and Kyrie the evening and much of the night had seemingly vanished into thin air. Ultimately, mages and fabulous balls mixed as well as oil and water. Forever lost in individual worlds, the time had blurred together for each and every one of the numerous guests.

"While I rejoice in standing here before you as the representative of the Mages Guild that has so kindly hosted our gathering, it pains me to say that I am only here because Malchior was unable to arrive," the woman paused to let the muttering die down. Malchior was a well-known name withing certain circles, and this was one of them.

"Look around you, these faces will be your friends, or perhaps your foes in the years to come..." the speaker plowed on to the annual appeal of a cessation of vendettas without explaining why Malchior was absent. However the assemblage of magic-workers paid little attention to the never-ending formality.

"Malchior? Unable to attend the turning of the millennium? Preposterous!"

"What's going on? He's never missed a single appointment in his life..."

Rorek alone remained stoically silent as his peers chattered away. After a time the pointed questions as to Malchior's whereabouts died down and the attendees turned to the more important and pressing matters – resolving old feuds and starting up new ones.

"Only mages..." sighed Rorek. "Please excuse me, Kyrie, I've _politics_ to attend to." The word 'politics' came out with an unrivaled glee that would have made any bystander shudder.

Ignoring his abnormal tendency towards bureaucracy, Kyrie waved her hand in an affirmative motion. "I've a few matters to attend to myself," she declared before floating towards a corner of the hall.

Suddenly, Rorek rushed up in front of her from among the sea of swirling colors that appeared only at conventions involving mage-kind.

"I intended to pick a fight, but wasn't expecting you to play the victim," the sorceress stated with a bemused expression.

Rorek shook his head, "I saw who you were going after. Leave Azar and hers alone for the time being – no matter what the slight was!" he muttered, leaning down slightly to bring his mouth close to her ear.

Kyrie however didn't take his advice well. Shoving him aside easily, she challenged, "I am not a coward, nor would I have anyone think as much of me."

Despite his help being thrown back into his face, Rorek persisted, grabbing her wrist. "It's not cowardice, it's common sense. Your lovely face has no place as a bloody pool on the cobblestones of some well-lit alley," he reached up and ran his free hand along the side of her face. "Azar is gathering her kin to her, for what purpose no one yet understands. At least wait till she slips in her power."

"And if I cautioned you to raise no hand against Malchior, would you?" Kyrie's comment shocked Rorek into releasing her wrist.

"Rorek of Nole?" a brightly colored man reached over to lay a hand on Rorek's silvery shoulder. "I'm Garth of Atlantis, we've been meaning to contact you..."

Kyrie glowered as Rorek's attention instantly shifted to the aqua-tinted dignitary; he seemingly forgot all about his dire warnings to her. Brushing off the cautionary words as quickly as he'd brushed off the necessity to convey them, Kyrie continued unimpeded to her original destination.

Azar was a, to say the least, well groomed and prim and proper mage born into an empire of magic and power – and it showed. Kyrie was by no means the first to be on the receiving end of one of Azar's idle taunts involving parentage and social status, but the fiery sorceress intended to be the last.

It was a common enough sight at the annual gathering for magical sparks to fly between mages, so Kyrie's path through the crowds went unnoticed. It wasn't until her spell-amplified voice rang out over the constant hum of conversation that the masses fell quiet and moved to form a large, loose circle.

"I, Kyrie of the Black Flame, challenge you, Azar of Azarath!"

Slightly taken aback, Azar's face formed a predatory grin. "I'd be less concerned with dirtying the lives of your betters, orphaned street trash, than with what your lover is up to. You and your kind have no place among us; no matter how long and hard you try, the sewer slime will never come off. It's hard to comprehend exactly how they managed to teach such manners as announcing a challenge!"

Azar's words were greeted with a rumble of anger. Even though the most power lay with the mage families who spent more time investing in pedigrees than the real world, the majority of the mid-powered magic-folk had come from the very background Azar and the lineages slighted on a routine basis.

"I, Xavier of the Red, join Kyrie's challenge!" a skinny but muscular man with a long scar across his right eye shoved his way to the front of the crowd. "Some of us street trashes are sick and tired of your conceited little world."

"Awww, Kyrie's man so pathetic she needs more just to defend herself?" Azar jeered, ignoring Xavier and the rapidly growing number of seconds.

Rorek, still standing next to Garth, glared at Azar. "I, Rorek of _House_ Nole," he laid a special emphasis on the 'house', as if to declare that he was not one of the 'street trashes' that were moving to stand by Kyrie. "Join Kyrie of the Black Flame in her challenge against Azar of Azarath!"

Azar simply smirked and whispered in a devious tone to Kyrie alone, "I wasn't really talking about him, but I suppose when arrogance is the defining trait, they're both so similar..."

-------------

Malchior ran.

Branches whipped at his face and thorns caught and tore his once splendid clothes. The forest was dark, and the purple mage occasionally ran his shoulder into unseen trees. Sometimes he tripped and fell, but some force drove him on. The numerous cuts that laced his hands had been bandaged in white linen, which had snagged in the vegetation and eventually been cast off.

The cuts bled.

By no means a silent runner, the crash of his passing echoed throughout the empty valley. The din was accompanied by Malchior's labored breathing, coming increasingly in short gasps. Even if there were any animals that hadn't fled by now, the sounds of nature would have been drowned out by the sounds of a single panicked mage. But the animals had fled as soon as the smell of overpowering fear reached them, long minutes before Malchior had.

At last the mage reached a clearing. He stumbled on soft feet that had been ripped to bloody ribbons several miles behind him. A quiet thud emanated as Malchior's skinned knees fell to the soft green grass below. His trembling body shook as coughs racked his frame. Bloodied hands reached up out of habit to cover his mouth, but they were suddenly jerked away.

More blood.

The thickened clumps of red slid down his shaking hand and silently fell down to the earth.

Soon tears joined the unfettered bout of coughing in seemingly tearing the mage apart.

"No... no... wasn't... not... like this..." the words were mere whispers between his violent hacking.

Instead of tumbling down to join his lifeblood and lungs on the ground, Malchior raised his face.

A full moon smiled down, casting a warm light – the only light - over the forest that penetrated his safe haven.

"No..." he gave one last cry, and then the moon went out.

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A review would be nice, although the readers (all four of them) don't seem to be the reviewing types. 


	5. The Fall of Azarath

A/N: Two weeks late and not even on the right day... this is what happens when I try to stick to a schedule. But I have an excuse! Four papers due, and then someone stole my bookbag! In case you're wondering, the bag's showed up, minus $200 worth of stuff.  
As far as sheduling the next update, I can shoot for next weekend, but no more sticking to a set date, there's too much going on for that.

This chapter is a lot of talking and setup, but the next one appears to contain some action. Also, Malchior is booked for a return later on.

Disclaimystuff: if you recognize it, I don't own it. Of note that I don't own this chapter are Slade, Kidflash, and Starfire (or is it Blackfire? hmmm)

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_Screaming. Blood. Death._

_From the central temple of Azarath, the noble house of the same name watched it all. The wide paved streets were like man made canals of blood, funneling the liquid symbol of carnage away from the city._

_While the city's ruling class observed all calmly, the common folk and visitors waded about aimlessly in the destruction, flailing for escape or release. Here and there the great golden towers of knowledge and learning toppled down into the death-scape below. The few who managed to reach the titanic walls surrounding the metropolis wailed in dismay, for each and every one of the great gates was barred with spell and steel._

_A few bolts of mage-fire soared up towards the sky, but none reached their target. The purple-black dragon reigned supreme over all, incinerating some, mauling others, and swooping down to brush away buildings like dead flies. When at last the city had become quiet save the crackle of fire and gurgle of blood, the monster turned towards the central temple._

_All of House Azarath stood calmly on the steps, staring down the fell beast._

_In one mighty bite, the once proud house was no more._

_------------_

Rorek rolled over, unconsciously dragging a fluffy white pillow into his face. The down stuffing nicely muffled the insistent pounding... pounding...

The white haired mage sat up with a start, throwing the pillow across the room into a window.

BAM! BAM! BAM! "ROREK! ROREK OF NOLE?" His heavy oak door trembled with every blast, bringing down masonry dust from the surrounding door frame.

With a dark look about his face, Rorek staggered across the cold stone floor to the entrance. Before letting whatever pest on the other side in, he habitually straightened his nightshirt and ran a hand through his long silvery hair.

"IN THE NAME OF H-" the young boy stopped mid sentence as he tumbled through the now open door into Rorek. In a flurry of misplaced limbs, the two crashed onto the stone floor.

A glowing white hand appeared above the tangle and grabbed the intruder by his mop of orange hair before hoisting him up a few feet off the ground.

Suddenly the newcomer was screaming and thrashing in the air. Rorek sighed, and the magical hand lowered the boy's feet back to solid ground. "Why are you here?" he demanded.

Recovering at an amazing pace, the bobbing head of orange bowed as the boy replied, "BartholomewAllen,sentbyHouseMetriontotellyouthatA-"

"HALT!" Rorek shouted. The boy complied, forcing his jaw closed with an audible snap. "Slow down and start from the beginning," the mage commanded.

Obviously taking great pains not to slur his words together, the boy tried again, "Bartholomew Allen sentbyHouse Metrion to tell you thatAzarathhas been attacked and destroyed by a giantfirebreathingdragon. Youare to present yourself atthepalace immediately."

Rorek simply glared. "You come here, nearly knock my door down, wake me, fall on me, and then expect me to believe you're a royal messenger sent to tell me that the greatest bastion of magical learning has been attacked by a _dragon_ and completely _destroyed_. Leave!"

Bartholomew jumped back. "AH! Nono,Ihaveproof!" His hands shot into a small leather bag at his side. "It'sheresomewhere!Youhavetobelieveme!" After nearly a minute of rummaging, during which Rorek contemplated throwing him out of the same window that the discarded pillow lay under, the boy produced a small silver token. On one side was a scripted M – the symbol of House Metrion. The other side was blank, save for the blue-green shimmer of mage-fire.

"Leave," Rorek commanded again, although this time in a softer tone. "Tell one of the gargoyles to give you a coin..." With a rough push he helped Bartholomew out of his room and closed the oaken door behind him.

_------------_

"Look! It's him." A lightly tanned hand shot out to point at a dark speck ascending the massive plaza of white stairs leading up to the five story high golden entrance to the palace.

A few questioning glances were given by the small group clustered near the top of the stairs. Excepting a few strokes of red, green, and the occasional white, each man and woman bore black as their defining color.

"If Kor says it's him, it's him," Kyrie stated bluntly.

The tall woman who had pointed out the rapidly approaching speck nodded in agreement. She turned to face the assemblage. "Please friends, Kyrie is closest to him, she should be the one to approach him in his time of need."

"Why are we here if Kyrie's the only who'll do anything?"

Kor's eyes flashed, "You are here to offer your support and condolences. If you demand more of a role in this affair than that, you may leave now." Her last two words carried the force of an order.

No one moved.

"Very well. Kyrie, you shall speak for us." Kor's imperious tone challenged the entire group to argue with her. No one did.

The incoming figure was indeed a confused and slightly upset Rorek. Azarath was greater than any dragon – assuming, of course, that there was a dragon - of that he was sure. But there was no reason for any member of the House to claim such a fanciful idea without some sinister motivation. Lost in thought, Kyrie was standing in front of him before he could even register the presence of anything beyond his footsteps against the white marble.

"Oh Rorek, we're so sorry..." Kyrie paused when Rorek raised his head to gaze at her in pure confusion. Suddenly nervous, she glanced back to Kor and the others.

Wordlessly, Kor raised a slender hand and beckoned for both of the friends to follow her.

Neither word nor gesture was needed to cause the great golden doors to swing open before them. Kor strode imperiously in the front, followed by Kyrie and Rorek, and then the remainder of the gathering. The tall woman led them across nearly the length of the great hall – past unfathomable wealth in material possessions and magic – towards one of the small side doors that dotted the sparkling white walls at regular intervals in the niches formed by the great columns.

Like every other door in the complex, the smaller oaken construct opened without a touch, closing with a soft but satisfying click in the wake of the party.

Kor continued on, through countless corridors, some well lit with windows and daylight, others brightened only by tiny were-lights scattered across the walls. After seemingly hours which had truthfully been no more than a half hour, the group reached what few among the living ever saw, the morgue.

The cold room was full of bodies waiting a well deserved state funeral. Fully clothed in all their grandeur, few appeared to simply be asleep on their raised black marble slabs. Limp sleeves hinted at missing arms, while magical masks disguised missing faces. Mages turned morticians huddled around one a clump of blackened ashes and a portrait, raising a full illusion of a body.

As if in a trance, Rorek's feet carried him forward, and then to a deserted corner. There was only one cadaver; it was male, draped in blues and silvers. A bronze plaque proclaimed the body to be Raguel of Houses Metrion and Azarath, Archmage, Hand of Justice... and the list went on, detailing every detail and accomplishment.

Kyrie moved to stand slightly behind her friend and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry... Raguel is dead, and you are to take on his responsibilities and title as Archmage this evening.

The white haired mage ignored the hand and continued to stare at the body until the threads of the illusion shimmered to reveal a pile of bone fragments and ash.

"These are only the members of House Metrion. The other houses have taken their own dead," murmured Xavier – one of the men who'd joined Kyrie's challenge against Azarath the night before. "All of us who stood against Azarath are suspect."

"Which is exactly why you should all consider go to the remains of Azarath and determining the exact cause of its destruction, be it dragon or treachery," a deep, rolling voice stated from somewhere behind the group. A massive man clothed in black and bronze stood, towering over the rest of the room. A discreet spell shadowed most of this face; the darkness grew deeper around his right eye. "To... prove your loyalty, of course."

The cluster of Rorek's friends seemed to draw closer into itself as if the shadows that practically dripped from the man were squeezing the space around him.

Without smiling, the man continued, "In fact, as a Supreme Commander, I'm _ordering_ you all to _leave immediately_."

As one, the group turned towards the door and filed out of the morgue.

"Ah, Rorek. I'm afraid you won't be able to follow your friends around like a lost puppy looking for sympathy. Joining my House as an Archmage, with all that entails, on such short notice will require quite a bit of preparation..." at last the man smiled. "Stay."

Gritting his teeth, Rorek nodded to the man and then left the room.

At last Slade smiled. "Good boy."

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Reviews are a very, very, good way of showing support. 


	6. The Assembly

A/N: Yeah, so I just know you guys were all dying for an update... actually, I was just feeling really guilty about not doing any work on this.

Anywho, wrote this in all of three hours this afternoon and now I'm just gonna post because I haven't updated in ... a month? at least.

Oh my. Did I promise action? because there isn't any. like, at all. in fact, I'm rather dissapointed in this chapter; there's not enough action for my taste, just a whole lot of setup leading to next chapter - which, if anything goes according to plan, will be lots and lots and lots of burning and killing and screaming and whatnot.

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.

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_Kyrie hid a small grin as she waved for the empty glasses to be filled._

_What had started as a group celebration in the local tavern had finally dwindled down to three; Rorek, Kyrie, and Malchior the newly made lord. In the background the constant rise and fall of conversations permeated the air. _

_Despite the good cheer, the brown haired young man frowned. He swirled the contents of his cup for a moment before the golden liquid lifted up into a sphere and began to slowly spin._

_White-haired Rorek leaned forwards and grinned, "You're about to join the peerage, smile!"_

_"Oh leave him alone, you're a noble - born to beurocratic nons -" Kyrie was cut off by a firm shove._

_Ignoring the friendly violence, Malchior continued to stare at his ball of beer. At last he took a deep breath,"But there's so much to do! I have to name the place, establish heraldry, clean the castle, meet the locals, learn the area, find a capable regent, maybe get married, build up my own house, and did I mention establishing heraldry?"_

_Rorek and Kyrie stared for a beat, then burst out laughing. Their friend glared and shoved his fingers into a mop of brown hair._

_"Well, first things first. What are you going to call the place? There may be a local name, or some archive in the libraries..." Rorek trailed off at Malchior's shaking head._

_"There are a few scattered villages, really nothing more than huts – no names. The fortress is supposedly empty, and according to the clerk who stuck me with the place, no record of it."_

_"That's ridiculous!" the noble shouted. "Mysterious castles in the middle of nowhere aren't just spontaneously found – that's like some sort of fairytale."_

_Shrugging, Malchior refocused on the swirling orb hovering above his cup. "What if I called it Bursea?"_

_At last Kyrie joined the conversation. "Bursea as in razed-to-the-ground-without-a-trace Bursea?"_

_Malchior nodded, "Volume sixteen of seventeen extant."_

_Rorek sneered, "You must be joking. You can't possibly want to name your holding after a corrupt nation of power hungry maniacs."_

_Smiling at last, the brown haired mage downed his cup. "I do. Now, for colors!"_

_As if on que the entire building was silenced. Four armor clad soldiers, dripping from the rain, stood at attention on either side of the door. Grey-white surcoats had been drenched almost transparent against a combination of plate and chain mail._

_The beer ball splashed down into it's cup with a deafening sploosh._

_A final man at arms stepped across the threshold and made a casual gesture, commanding the quiet onlookers to talk their loudest and pay no attention to the armed strangers._

_Predictably, the tavern remained quiet until the massive soldier glared. During the rustle of prepared knives and the din of civilians attempting to converse as obnoxiously as possible, the soldiers dispersed into the crowd._

_Rorek tensed and straightened slightly. Sensing the change in their friend's mood, his two companions did the same._

_The man who'd dominated the entire room only moments before strode up to the small group. "Rorek of Nole?"_

_"I am he," the white-haired noble replied tersely. "Am I to assume you are messengers of my father?"_

_Nodding, the soldier produced a roll of parchment with a glowing seal of white wax. "The Lord Nole commands that you raise your cousin and school him in the ways of magics," he declared. With a curt gesture he summoned another soldier, accompanied by a white haired boy who looked to be four, to him. "Above all, you will keep Artor safe."_

_Words said, the man and his four companions trooped out of the tavern, leaving the child behind._

_Malchior, Rorek, and Kyrie stared down at the boy, and Artor stared back._

_It was Malchior who spoke first. "So kid, what's your favorite color?"_

_Cocking his head to the side, Artor replied, "Purple!"_

_------------_

THUD!

Three bodies slammed into the pale marble floor of the palace, accompanied by a sick sounding wet slap.

Stunned, the court didn't move. The only sound came from the still burning clothes of the three figures. One of them shifted slightly. "hel..."

Long seconds ticked by before Slade shoved several onlookers aside. Stalking over to the bodies, he bent down. "Get the healers," the Supreme Commander didn't have to turn to know that not a soul had obeyed him. "NOW!" he roared.

The immediate action that suddenly filled the hall was dwarfed only by the rising tide of panic among the gaudily clad nobles.

The body that had tried to cry earlier coughed weakly.

In an almost gentle voice, Slade spoke softly to the only conscious arrival. "Garth, what did this?"

Garth of Atlantis screwed up his eyes in pain. Patches of blackened skin flaked off in clumps. "Drag... on..."

Beneath the shadow-spell on his face, the unflappable Supreme Commander grimaced.

_------------_

The blinding white of the sheets, the walls, the bed, the door, the everything of the room was brilliantly spotless. Three figures were silhouetted in the streaming sunlight.

Rorek tenderly ran his fingers through Kyrie's dark hair, leaving his other hand to rest on her bandaged one.

Across the aisle Garth lay quietly. Since his single word report to his Commander, the Atlantian hadn't stirred. Beside his bed lay an enshrouded figure – indistinguishable because the stainless sheet had been pulled across it completely.

The white-haired man caressed Kyrie's cheek. "Don't worry dearest, I'll hunt down the beast that did this – and when I find it the very fires of hell shall tremble." Rorek continued to whisper oaths of vengeance as the sunlight marched across the floor of the room. Seeming to awake from a dream, he stood and brushed a few strands of hair out of her face.

"Slade's calling us all together now. But just watch, out of the hundreds that will be sent, I alone will slay the dragon." Rorek paused at Kyrie's side one last time before leaving.

Kyrie's eyelids fluttered slightly, accompanied by a muffled groan.

"No, no, save your strength. Artor's been asking of you, he doesn't know yet," Rorek's hand hovered near Kyrie's cheek again. "He's going to need you."

Letting the last word hang in the air, Rorek left the stirring Kyrie and the still sleeping Garth.

_------------_

Slade stood at the top of the cascade of steps leading up to the Palace of Metrion. Assembled before him were eleven archmages decked in the heraldry of their orders. Behind them the greatest mages each discipline had to offer milled about in the ordered chaos that accompanied magic wherever it went. The sea of color was overwhelming, as was the vast number of mage-kind.

The Supreme Commander himself coldly gazed down at the mob. The man didn't even twitch as Rorek walked past him to stand with the other archmages. Instead, Slade launched into a well rehearsed speech.

"Seventeen mages – seventeen of _us _are dead. Mage-born all, they rest eternally in peace – but we do not. In the space of a day, _Azarath has fallen_! The house of Azar is dust and ashes, burnt from the face of the world."

Slade's aura of emotionless detachment could almost be heard shattering as he lashed out at the air in rage.

"The scholars, sages, and citizens of Azarath are burned alive – cursed to relive their final moments again and again 'till we the living have avenged their murders."

Taking the pause in the Commander's words as invitation, Rorek stepped forward. "Let me lead our vengeance!" he begged.

Lowering his voice so that only the few closest to him could hear, Slade replied coldly, "No. Inexperience, arrogance, and _stupidity_ that got your friends _killed_ will not serve us today." Raising his voice back to a pitch to drown out the din of a battlefield, he continued, "I will lead, personally, and _Azarath will be avenged_!"

_------------_

In the infirmary, Kyrie at last wrenched her eyes open.

"Malchior..."

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-  
feel free to insert your choice of "desperate plea for reviews" line 


	7. The Dragon

A/N: Hey, look, I'm back! stoned to death for never updating... wait, that would require that people actually read this, which they don't...)

Eh, more discontent with what I'm writting; thankfully it'll all be over soon. I'm pretty sure only one more chapter._  
_

* * *

_Pennants fluttered in the wind, their colors complimenting, contrasting, and clashing with each other. Ever feeling the need to display themselves like strutting peacocks, the assembly milled about, trying to keep their expensive clothes out of the mud and ash. The congregation, sensing the gloom of the valley of Azarath, chattered almost nervously (although to show outright nervousness simply wouldn't do)._

_One area however was filled with silence and dead air. At its center, Slade knelt in the muck, running an ungloved hand through the indented dirt. Slowly he stood, wiping his hand off on the garish shirt of an aide hovering nearby. His dull copper and onyx colored body armor provided a stark contrast to the neon horrors of the aides._

_"Well?" Rorek demanded from a safe distance, animosity dripping from his voice._

_"..." Slade seemed to choose his words carefully, "Perhaps there was a dragon here."_

_"Are you mad?" Rorek spat. "Of course there was a dragon here! Or perhaps the blindness has spread to both your eyes!"_

_Slade's single eye moved to focus on the smaller silvery mage. "You'll pay for that, boy."_

_An almost physical presence filled the air and the commander took a leisurely step towards Rorek._

_Realizing the impending doom, the young man scuttled backwards, attempted to join the crowd of mages and perhaps be lost in it. But a cowardly retreat was not to be his, as the other magic-users had the common sense to shift away and leave a healthy amount of space between themselves and the fledgling archmage._

_Searching around desperately for an avenue of escape, Rorek suddenly threw his hand out towards the sky as a dark shadow passed over the throng. "Look!" he screamed. As if on cue, the shadow paused and a great gust of air slammed into the masses, kicking up mud, stones, and people._

_The majestic black and purple figure rising above the ruins of Azarath dwarfed all sights seen in millennia. Its body defied all logic; nothing so massive should be able to take flight, even with a wingspan measured in mountain tops. Scales glittered in the midday sun, and immense arms and legs dangled about, seeming to suggest the creature would be much more fit for running to and fro on land, rather than soaring the skies._

_An impossibly long neck snapped down from above and seized several bodies from among the stunned onlookers. In a single brutally graceful movement it threw the panicking men and women up into the air before catching them in its gaping maw and swallowing. Belching fire, the winged lizard gave a mighty shudder before beating its wings in a frenzied manner that lifted it up and pushed it away towards a distant forest._

_"What are you fools waiting for? Follow it!" bellowed Slade, although he himself did not move to join the slowly milling crowd that was too frightened to make any headway on their own. Continuing his steady march towards Rorek, the commander finally halted a few feet away from his target. "You will not be coming with us."_

_Surprisingly, Rorek did not argue, merely hung his head and glared from the safety of a curtain of long white locks. "Then what are you waiting for?" he growled, "hurry up and kill that beast."_

_Not deigning to grace the insubordination with a reply, Slade turned on his heel and quickly strode towards the edge of the crowd of mages. Reaching into an unobtrusive belt, he pulled a small metal toy and placed it gently on the ground. As he held his gloved hand over it, the toy shot up in size until it was slightly larger than a full grown war horse. Its metal plating was not polished, and barely glinted under the harsh sunlight. Throwing its head back, the mechanical steed brayed and pawed the earth as Slade mounted it._

_"I hope that your perhaps-dragon eats you, Slade." Rorek muttered as the rest of the mages summoned up mounts, clouds, carpets, and whatever else they felt was appropriate for a sorcerer to travel on._

_------------_

The already destroyed castle crumbled further under the strain of magic and the sheer physical presence of a full grown dragon. Dark stones were thrown from their places to hurl down into the surrounding waters, or to crash down the yawning chasm that had opened up and swallowed the flagstones. A sickly green tint overwhelmed the area, tainting the sky a menacing acidic color. Spent destructive magics were audibly finishing the work originally assigned to them, racing over the ruins extinguishing whatever life they brushed.

Dead bodies fluttered down the abyss like snow.

A bloodied hand rose up in a horror-movie cliche, grasping about until it found a purchase on a fallen boulder. The ragged hand was followed by another as slowly but surely Slade pulled himself up, nearly falling to his death every time he let go to swing an arm farther up the large stone.

Suddenly Slade's flailing arm was grasped by a pale hand. Not bothering to look up to see his savior, the commander snapped, "I ordered you to stay. You disobeyed. When we return you-"

"I don't take orders from dead men." A dark gray spark leapt from Slade's forearm into Rorek's thin hand. The solitary spark was followed by another, and another, and then a cascade of shadowed light gushed from the commander into the silvery mage. The older man visibly shrank, seeming to collapse into himself till he looked like a nothing more than an armor wearing skeleton.

Humming with stolen energy, Rorek let go of his former commander when the flow of power slowed to a thin trickle. The aristocratic mage sniffed in minor disgust as the body joined the many others in a plunge towards the center of the earth.

A heavy thud announced the arrival of the dragon. "Rrrrr..." the beast made a sound akin to boulders grinding against each other as tongues of flame jumped from its partially open mouth.

A light grayish bubble encased Rorek in its glow, protecting him from the darting fire.

"Rrrrrroarrrrrr..." the dragon ground out again.

"You're weren't a mage, you know. Any idiot should have known to double check that spell. And now you're nothing." Darker gray sparks played across Rorek's skin, creating a nearly opaque glow around his nose, eyes, and mouth.

"Rrrrroarrrrkkkk..."

"You've hurt Kyrie, you know – which makes you now less than nothing. I've come to avenge her, and I will not rest until you are dead." Slowly Rorek turned to face the dragon. "Now then. Pathetic excuse for whatever in hellfire's name you've become, fight me or give up, either way I shall slay you."

The dragon narrowed its red eyes to glower at the tiny mage before it. At last it reared back its head and unleashed a stream of golden red flames. Already prepared, Rorek conjured a white shield to absorb the impact and the unbearable heat. A second wave of fire slammed into the shield, breaking it, but leaving its creator unharmed in the rising dust cloud.

Retaliating, Rorek hurled a crackling sphere of power straight into the dragons chest, making the beast recoil from the impact. Swiftly recovering, it spewed out another gush of fire, forcing the mage to gracefully leap up and propel himself backward using the force of a destructive stream of white magic blasted at the lizard's head.

Shielding itself with a enormous wing, the dragon barely felt the effects of the blast, and lashed out with its tail from the cloud of dust to crash into the wizard's landing spot. Falling from his already precarious perch, Rorek slammed into the ground with only the strength of his armor to prevent outright broken ribs. Slowly he picked himself up to face the dragon once again.

"_Necronom hezberek mortix!_"


	8. Last Stand

A/N: Wow. I never thought I'd get around to finishing this. *sigh*

However! Zoi asked me to, and I sorta felt obligated. Reading back over this story, I don't know what I was thinking. On the other hand, I suppose I'm actually kind of satisfied that there's some sort of logical progression, and that I managed to actually have an ending.

I mean, I actually planned this entire story out, originally. Except that file somehow got lost in the past year. *rolls eyes*

I'll probably rewrite this, change it from a pseudo history into a full blown AU - that way I can actually bring in the other Titan characters as promient figures instead of sideshow attractions. The lack of actual Teen Titans peoples has been, in my opinion, this story's greatest failing. When/if I rewrite this, I suppose I'll stick it on my lj. Or something. Maybe even post it here, if anyone's interested in reading it.

* * *

_"And so it came to pass that Rorek of Nole defeated the dread dragon. However, in the wake of the monster's defeat, the mage forces of the House of Metrion were a decimated ghost of their former selves. Rorek himself did not return from the battle. Instead, a single survivor arose – a wizard of the House of Azar, a wizard whose power the likes of which we of the mageborn had never seen. In a fiery campaign he raised the dead of his fallen house and marched upon the undefended capital, laying waste to all in his way."_

_Artor leaned back in his chair and set down his quill. Sinking into exhaustion, he closed his eyes..._

_------------ _

Kyrie shot up in her infirmary bed. Around her, the room was a starched white, devoid of life. Next to her, she noticed Artor. There looked to be two more occupied beds in the room, one by a sleeping Garth, and the other by someone covered by a sheet. Probably in respect to the dead.

"Hi!" chirped Artor. The child was grinning happily.

"Artor..." said Kyrie. "Artor, where's your cousin?" she begged. Or perhaps she demanded, her tone was desperate enough to be either.

Artor continued to grin. "Rorek's off to fight a dragon!"

"No," whispered the enchantress. Clumsily, she pushed the sheets covering her off and made to get up. Suddenly though, a force was slamming her down onto the bed. The force was personified as a sparkling white hand.

Artor frowned. "They said you're not to get up. You're not well enough."

"So you won't let me up?" asked Kyrie.

Artor shook his head. "Nope."

Realizing she was facing all the stubbornness of a child, Kyrie changed tactics. "If I'm not well enough..." she trailed off, quite obviously. "You'll have to do it. But it's too dangerous..." again, she put special emphasis on her own hesitancy.

"Do what?" asked Artor, taking the bait.

"Nothing. You're too young," responded Kyrie, quite firmly.

Perhaps too firmly, as Artor gave up. "Oh, okay."

Darnit. Children were supposed to be more curious and headstrong than that. Once again, Kyrie was forced into a different tactic. "If you do something for me, I'll get you candy as soon as I'm well."

Artor's eyes lit up at the mention of sweets. "Okay!"

Kyrie smiled, happy that her plan seemed to be working. Closing her eyes again, she concentrated, bringing all the energies remaining in her battered body into focus. Holding out her hand, a black and white nexus of energy formed around it, conjuring up a white book. Reopening her eyes, Kyrie looked over at Artor again. "I'm going to weave a spell, and I just need you to lend me your power."

"That's easy," said Artor. The boy sounded very disappointed. However, he obliged the request and closed his eyes, summoning up his own white aura, which blanketed both himself, Kyrie, the bed, and a large portion of the room.

Kyrie grimaced as she concentrated on the spell threads she wanted to bring out. Drawing small runes with her fingers while clutching the book under her arm, she summoned up the power that was suffocating the room.

_------------_

The first thing the enchantress noticed when she arrived was the smell of smoke. The second thing was the sea of bodies. The dead expedition force blanketed the field.

Panic rose in Kyries throat as she desperately searched for Rorek. Surely such a powerful man would still be alive? Surely?

A giant crash caught her attention. In the distance, the dragon Malchior tumbled down as dust billowed up around him.

Gathering herself up, Kyrie began to stumble forward, headed towards the battle. If Rorek lived, that was where he was.

_------------_

Rorek watched, detached, as the ground beneath the dragon broke beneath its feet, leaving the wizard on a narrow precipice of solid ground.

The battle had been long, and Rorek was exhausted. But he had finally won, he had finally defeated the monster. Turning away from the chasm that had just opened, Rorek began to stagger towards more stable land.

He did not realize his mistake until a pillar of fire spewed up from where the dragon had plummeted down. With a giant crash, the beast landed on the ground Rorek had only just been standing on moments before.

It was his mistake, he knew. Dragons had wings.

Before Rorek could react, the monster's snaking tale whipped out from behind him, grabbing him and lifting him up into the air to stare into the crimson eyes of the beast.

"Rrrrroooorrrrkkkk..." it moaned.

_------------_

Kyrie watched helplessly as Rorek was torn from the ground and brought to face the dragon. She was still too far, gods curse it! Stumbling to a halt, she shouted up, "ROREK!" Knowing he would not reply, she twisted her body around and flung the book as hard as she could in the general direction of the battle. It was all she could do.

_------------_

"ROREK!"

Rorek tore his eyes from the staring contest with the dread dragon and saw... no... it couldn't be... Kyrie? Whoever it was, the figure hurled up something that looked suspiciously like a book. Realizing his only chance lay in that person, whoever it was, being an ally, Rorek reached out his hands and called to the tumbling object, summoning it up to him.

The wizard and the dragon's eyes widened simultaneously as they both realized what the book was, and what it meant.

Resolve evident in his eyes, Rorek twisted in the dragon's grasp to face his adversary. "Scum of the earth, you have lost."

"_Aldruon enlenthra nalthos sola narisnor_!"

_------------_

Kyrie stumbled through the wreckage of Malchior's castle. The proverbial silence was deafening, and she felt acutely alone among the dead. Step by step she headed towards where she judged the final battle to have taken place.

Indeed, surrounded by the rubble of the once majestic building, and covered by dust, was a single book.

Hesitantly, Kyrie picked up the volume, slowly opening it.

A blast of power issued forth from the pages, almost knocking Kyrie off her feet. The book fell to the ground, still open, and still leaking energies forth.

Gathering herself up again, she crawled towards the book once more.

The energy subsided as she stared down at the pages, and black ink began to form on the pages. The rough outlines of a face appeared, hastily sketched, constantly shifting. "Kyrieee..." the book moaned.

In a panicked rush, Kyrie slammed the covers shut.

Panting heavily from terror, she jumped as someone laid a hand on her back. Twisting around, she looked up at the one whose hand it was, hoping...

"Hello," said the man.

Kyrie sighed a sigh of disappointment.

"We should probably get back, get someone to clean up this mess," continued the man. Dressed in deep red, the crest of Azar was engraved on the clasp of his cloak. He smiled down, his friendly voice added, "By the way, I'm Trigon."

The End


End file.
